I can check “Spend Time in the Torment of Hell” off my personal bucket list since I have just had a massive garage sale last weekend. If given a choice, I would rather be disemboweled with a grapefruit spoon than to have a garage sale, and yet I have just had the garage sale to end them all. Literally. I publicly declare right here and now that I will never do that again. The only way that my belongings will ever be displayed on card tables with tiny price tags on them will be after I’m dead and my family is liquidating everything for beer money.

Because we have recently sold our house in Lake Jackson, I flew back from the Middle East to clear everything out. Fifteen years of accumulation for four people had to be reduced to a 10x10 storage unit in a matter of days. You’d be amazed at what you really have when you have to physically touch every single item and make a decision about it. My grandmother’s antique table gets to stay. The bag of human teeth did not. Oh stop it! I am not Hannibal Lecter! Every mother saves their children’s baby teeth. I’m just not willing to pay for storage space in San Antonio for a bag of my children’s baby teeth. It’s not as if they’re going to want them back.

Just a warning to others, if you put it on Facebook and then post an ad in The Source Weekly that you’re selling just about everything be ready for the feeding frenzy of people that want to buy your stuff that will hit you like a tsunami. I think some of these people would have chipped the paint off the wall if I said I’d sell it for $1.50. (Of course, they’d only offer me a quarter for it!)

I washed up the next morning thinking I would scramble a couple of eggs for breakfast only to find that I had sold the pans. My options for breakfast were reduced to a chicken biscuit at Whataburger or cracking a raw egg directly into the back of my throat. I’ve been to a place most people never have to go to because someone I’ve known for over ten years bought a package of toilet paper from me that only had one roll missing. Some things just cause a greater burden than they cure.

Contact Jean at muchado@thesourceweekly.com

Much Ado Archives

May 16, 2013

We all have to accept that there are things in life that we just can’t control, like the weather and death and who sits next to you on airplanes. There is no greater roll of the dice than getting that boarding pass and stepping onto an airplane. And chances are it’s not going to turn out well. No wonder so many people have a fear of flying. I don’t think it has anything at all to do with crashing, but everything to do with who is going to be crammed into that seat next to them.

Let’s face it, we’ve all had those flights, the ones where you’re sitting next to the guy with adenoids the size of basketballs who snores at a volume just slightly greater than that of the jet engine just outside the window for the entire flight. Or you’re wedged into the middle seat between two armrest hogs who want to do a rib count on you with their elbows all the way from La Guardia to Omaha. If your flight is going to be stuck on the tarmac for an extra three hours, it will only happen when you’re sitting next to the person who refuses to bathe as a statement against the unethical treatment of animals in soap and deodorant testing.

I think most airlines takes special pains to sprinkle the small children and babies evenly throughout a flight in order to make sure every passenger has an equal opportunity to be stared at over the seat back in front of them, to be kicked from behind for four solid hours or to have their sanity called into question by the ear-shredding scream of a teething 8-month old who can’t clear their ears.

It never fails that if you’re exhausted, you’ll sit next to a motor-mouth that wants to explain why they disagree with their doctor’s diagnosis and justify their refusal to properly take their medications. Or if you’re bored, your seatmate will only be on the flight because they are migrating from their summer cave to their winter burrow and merely snarl at your attempts for polite conversation to pass the time.

So to the nice British gentleman who drew the seat number next to mine on that recent international flight, thank you for being normal. Well, as normal as the British can be!

May 9, 2013

I grew up knowing that sunny days were sweeping the clouds away, because I was on my way to where the air was clear. I could tell you how to get, how to get to Sesame Street. I learned from Kermit the Frog that it wasn’t easy being green, and how to count from Ernie and Bert. Sesame Street was a great place, but all that has changed. There are some seriously crabby people there now, and I’m not talking about Oscar the Grouch living in a trash can!

Last month, Cookie Monster was arrested in Times Square for shoving a 2-year old. Despite reports that Cookie was enraged when the child’s mother refused to pay him a few bucks for the photo she took of him with the kid, I think there’s more to it. I think the 2-year old made a misguided play for the chocolate chips. If that’s really what happened, then it’s an open and shut case. I’d probably shove a 2-year old, too.

Unfortunately, this is not the only case of Muppet gone Mad. Last year, it was Elmo who went postal. The “emotionally disturbed” Elmo was harassing tourists at the Central Park Zoo, screaming obscenities and threats until NYPD carried him off in an ambulance. Again. Seems Arrest Me Elmo has a history of public meltdowns. Yeah, it’s cute when Big Bird has a big, hairy, invisible friend named Snuffy, but, in Elmo’s case, I’m thinking a strong prescription medication monitored by a health professional might be in order here.

I’m concerned about the possibility of this trend continuing. What’s next? Miss Piggy gets picked up for prostitution? Super Grover goes to the dark side and starts working with the forces of Evil? Seriously, if you can’t trust a fuzzy hand puppet to walk the straight line of righteousness, who can you trust?!

Personally, I think after all of this, I’m changing my address off of Sesame Street and moving to Mr. Roger’s neighborhood. I seriously doubt that King Friday will knife me in my sleep or develop nuclear weapons targeted at the West Coast. (Google King Friday, kids. You’re too young to know that one.) Oh, and today’s column is brought to you by the letters J and C and the number 9.

May 2, 2013

I took four semesters of Spanish in college because I had to in order to graduate. I spent a lot of my pizza-and-beer money on tutors to get through those classes, and only passed that final semester because I brought donuts to the early morning final. That’s the truth. Donuts. For the whole class. It was worth it for the college diploma and the knowledge that I’d never have to face down another foreign language again. Until now.

Because I’ve moved to the Middle East, I’m expected to “hablo Arabico.” Okay, can we just stop right there? If I’m a complete wash out in Spanish, a language that is tied to really good food and is practically the second language of the State of Texas, how am I expected to learn Arabic? I’d have better luck opening a snow cone stand over here!

Every week our Arabic tutor, an extremely tolerant man from Egypt who couldn’t possibly be paid enough to take on this Herculean task, comes to our house to try and teach us a language that is just a smidgeon less difficult than Mandarin Chinese. After two full years, all I got out of Spanish was the ability to order a couple of beers and find the bathroom. Usually in that order. But they don’t have beer over here, so I’m trying to just learn other basic survival phrases, like “Help me!” “Do you speak English?” and “Hey, does your camel bite?”

I really am making an honest effort to learn, so I make flashcards with everything written the way it sounds. Then when I want to ask the man at the fish market, “How much is the squid?” I can just pull out the flashcard and mangle the pronunciation to the point that I say who knows what and the fishmonger just gives me whatever I point at to make me go away.

In all fairness, I have learned the word for “yes,” which is pronounced “nom.” Like the noise the PacMan makes: nom nom nom nom. And no is simply, “la.” Lalalalalala is not just for those times when you don’t know the words to the song, it’s now great for the times you don’t know the words to anything! Now how do you say, “Where can I find a good burrito in this country?”

April 25, 2013

You don’t have to be Dr. Phil to realize there a few things that you just don’t say to women. Ever. Too often you see a man stumble blindly into these areas only to draw away a stump where his head once was, while nearby is a woman looking like she just stepped out of Stephen King’s book “Carrie,” all covered in blood, her eyes rolled back to the whites and setting everyone in the room on fire.

When dessert has been set down in front of a woman, don’t ever ask her if she really needs to eat that. Dessert is darn near a religious experience for most women. Of course she needs to eat that, and your implication that maybe she’s strapped on the dessert feedbag one too many times is not going to win you points. Ever.

It doesn’t matter what mood she’s in, don’t ever ask a woman if she’s on her period. What good is that information to you if you’ve been hacked to death with a meat cleaver and stored in 28 different Tupperware containers in two counties? If you think you even might want to ask this question, then the better choice will be to shape up and shut up in order to live another day.

You’re smarter if you never ask a woman, “Are you going to wear that?” Obviously she’s going to wear it or she wouldn’t have put it on. Unless you’re “Project Runway” host Tim Gunn or currently designing your own line of clothing for department stores nationwide, then you’re in a bad place with this question. Take three giant steps backwards after asking, “Mother may I?” Do not call into question an outfit that probably took three days, four girlfriends and two different trips to the mall to put together.

Don’t ever tell a woman you liked her hair better before she got it cut. If you didn’t like what she made for dinner, don’t tell her while you’ve got the plate in front of you. Swallow any criticism you have about her pets and kids. And under no circumstances tell a woman she’s starting to look like her mother unless she’s the natural offspring of Angelina Jolie.

And hear me well on this one as there is no greater rookie error than this: Do not ever – not even on a bet – ask a woman if she’s pregnant. Ever. Any questions

April 18, 2013

Face it: Life’s tough. At times, it just even flat out sucks. But each week it’s my goal to find a small glimmer of humor in the suckage, although I’m not sure suckage is a word which may explain why I don’t win a Pulitzer. Terrorists, however, make my job just nearly impossible.

When I moved to the Middle East, people thought I was nuts. They may have thought I was nuts long before that if they knew me on any level at all, but moving to the Middle East pretty much sealed the deal. They worried for my safety. Quite frankly, I think I’m probably safer here than I am on the streets or schools or malls or movie theaters in the US!

Recently, I called to find out about cancelling the service that monitors my alarm system on my house in Lake Jackson. (Don’t think you’re going to pilfer anything, I didn’t actually cancel it. One wrong move and LJPD will have you slapped on the hood of the car in cuffs like you were the next episode of “COPS.”) The girl on the phone asked if I didn’t want to move my service to my new house. I had to explain that my new home is surrounded by a huge concrete wall, topped with razor wire and guarded by overheated, cranky military guys standing behind assault weapons. It’s kind of like celebrity houses in Hollywood! I think security on the new house is pretty much taken care of.

So I give up some personal freedoms to sleep a little sounder. If something goes bump in the night, it should be the boogieman not an explosive. At the same time, we have to believe that the boogieman is not the neighbor in the house next door or in the country across the world.

Terrorism is everywhere and it has nothing to do with a specific religion or region. There are children terrorized in homes by abusive adults or at school by bullies. The Catholics and Protestants have trouble getting along in Ireland. The Sunis and Shiites knock heads in the Middle East. The Jews seem to get a tough time from everybody, and I think the North Koreans are mad at the world. At some point, on an individual level, we all have to make a decision to be tolerant. We need to have more belly laughs than bombs, which is exactly my goal with this column!

April 11, 2013

After four years of writing this column, it’s probably time to answer some of the tens of letters that have been written to me. While I appreciate that most of the feedback I get when I meet people along the way is very positive and encouraging, others choose to hide behind their electronics. And may I just say it’s not really fair to encrypt your return address when sending me emails that spell out in no uncertain terms that I’m a moron. That goes for you, too, Dad.

In response to the invitation for dinner that I received via email, you didn’t specify whether or not I could bring my husband and two teenagers with us. We all like Italian food, so get back to me on that and we’ll get it set up.

To everyone who has sent fan mail to my dog, Buster, who fills in while I’m on vacation, I’m glad you like his columns. But next time you want to rave about how he’s such a better writer than I am, please remember who has the password to the email. I read that stuff, too, you know. Let me also point out that he has not, in fact, won a Pulitzer Prize for Journalism. If he said that, he’s lying. I know it’s shocking and disappointing to discover that journalists lie … no, wait, that’s not shocking. That’s mainstream news outlets in general. So okay, we’ll stand behind the story that he won a Pulitzer.

My apologies to the woman who asked me not to write any more columns about snakes. You’re right, two in four years probably is more than enough. Let’s not empower the reptiles with too much publicity. Next thing they’ll want equal coverage under Obamacare.

Last week I got an email asking if I had really moved to the Middle East or if I was making that up so I had something new to write about. My question back is: Did you think through that question before you asked it? If I were going to invent myself into a new home, why would I willingly choose the Middle East? Is North Korea all full up? If I were going to make up a place that I moved to, I’d be writing columns about Bora Bora or Italy or Paris in the spring, not the women’s bathrooms of Saudi Arabia!

April 4, 2013

What I’m going to say here probably isn’t going to be the most popular statement I’ve ever made, but I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t believe there was some level of truth. Okay, so the truth is in my world which is the same place where “ellemenohpee” is one letter, so please make the necessary adjustments. But, in my opinion, golf is a silly sport. I understand there is probably a portion of my readers who have now wadded up page 4 of the paper and putted it across the room into a pencil holder and labeled me a heretic. I can live with that.

Let’s start with the people who actually play golf. He’s the one in the most obnoxious pair of plaid pants that can possibly be purchased without a license. These are the kind of pants that can be seen from Google Earth. What is up with this blatant disregard for decent fashion sense? Is it so the groundskeepers can find you if you get tangled in the woods looking for the ball or to make you look less appetizing to the alligators that nest in the water traps?

Beyond the clothes, the game itself is a bit silly. If it’s really that much fun to hit the little ball, why not hit it a whole bunch of times a little way? Why not play with a bigger ball that you can actually find? Why are grown men playing with teas and cups and birdies? This sounds more like a garden party to me.

If playing golf isn’t questionable enough, then there are the people who watch golf. Have you noticed the commentators on TV whisper when they’re covering a tournament? Is that so they don’t wake up the viewers sleeping through it at home? Watching in person, though, can’t be better. With people stacked 18 deep around the hole, what are you going to see but the sunburned neck of the guy in front of you. You just do the little polite golf clap when everyone else does and follow the herd to the next hole. Okay, that’s fun?

So to be honest, golf is an excuse to be outside on the grass without pushing a mower; to have the chance to dress like you don’t care how you look; and to drive a golf cart. Because that’s fun. Driving the golf cart is fun. The rest, I just don’t know.

March 28, 2013

Did you know that 2013 is the Year of the Snake? This may explain why there are so many people ready to hack this year to death with a hoe. In my opinion, there are few things that deserve to be beat to death with a shovel more than a snake, but here’s your heads-up, folks: Spring is snake season. If you think I’m kidding, ask the guys over at Brazos Pipe & Steel in Freeport who had a 4’, 4” long rattlesnake that was 3” around and had 13 rattles hanging out with them early in March. They’ll tell you!

It’s kind of hard to blame the woman in the Texarkana area who, earlier this month, poured gasoline on a snake she saw in her yard and then set it on fire in an attempt to kill it. However, she sadly missed the fact that the shovel or the hoe really is a critical step in snake-killing. Her flaming reptile; not yet dead, used its last breath to slither under her house and set it on fire! So take note: Beat the snake, hack the snake and THEN set the snake on fire.

Of course, there are two sides to every coin. Yu Feng in China saved a dying black snake (I’m baffled as to why!) and named it Long Long (I would have named it Dead Dead). In January 2010, Long Long repaid the favor one night by climbing onto Yu’s bed and slapping it with his tail until he woke up. Then he slithered over to Yu’s mother’s bed to wake her up because her electric blanket was on fire! People all over the world proclaimed the snake a hero. I proclaim him a hack. I think the snake set the fire to begin with. Snakes are like that. You can’t trust them.

Earlier this year, 800 people showed up in the Everglades to hunt Burmese pythons that have been unnaturally introduced and are killing just about everything else out there. They breed with the local pythons and probably make super pythons that are virtually indestructible. I’m sure if something isn’t done about the massive constrictors, they’ll probably have nuclear capabilities by 2014.

So maybe giving snakes their own year wasn’t a good idea. But be careful working in your flower beds or moving rocks. And keep the shovel and hoe handy!

March 21, 2013

I come from the land of Buc-cee’s, that magical place of pristine, spacious bathrooms. So wonderful are the Buc-cee bathrooms that their virtues are touted on billboards, and travelers go miles out of their way just to pop in to pee. Unfortunately, I’m not currently living in that world. I actually think I may have been condemned to bathroom hell. And trust me, that is no place for a woman.

I’m in Saudi Arabia, where a lot of things are strange to me, bathrooms being pretty high on that list. I can’t speak for the men’s bathrooms, but in the ladies “hammam,” it’s odd.

First of all, stalls are very tiny. You almost have to climb on top of the toilet to get the door shut, which is a feat considering all the women wear long, black abaya dresses. Okay, so you get the door shut, and then you have to deal with that dress. I’m not sure if the protocol is to take it off and hang it on the door hook or flip it up over your head or just wad it up under your arms. So take note: dress up, pants down. Practice at home.

To complicate the juggling act, the floors are always really wet. Typically, stalls are equipped with this spray nozzle thing. Back home, I had one on the kitchen sink to spray dishes. We had one in the bathtub to wash the dog. I’m hesitant to wonder why it’s in the bathroom stall, but from the amount of water on the floor, it obviously gets used. I’ve tried to think through in my head how one would go about taking a tiny, area-specific mini-shower in this cramped space without drowning completely, all the while managing the dress up-pants down balancing thing. Some bathrooms are serious about it, too, because toilet paper is available only at the door when you walk in, so think ahead or be ready to spritz. Or maybe you could drip dry while you struggle over what to do.

Through all that, though, you have to be grateful if there’s actually a toilet in your stall. There are bathrooms where target shooting isn’t just for boys. In which case, maybe you flip your pants over your head with the dress and the sprayer is to wash off your shoes. Or maybe you just learn to hold it until you get home. To the States!

March 14, 2013

Overall, I’m a pretty trusting person. If you tell me something, I’m likely to believe you. Call me gullible, but I don’t have to see gravity to believe it’s going to stick me to the earth. I want to believe in the goodness of all mankind and that what is said is true. So to whoever is putting the “No Iron” tags inside my husband’s shirts, I can only wish that a blind man tweezes every hair off your body in payment for your lies.

Let’s start with the shocking reality that I actually plugged the iron into the wall with the intent to iron the shirts. Or anything at all, for that matter. As far as I’m concerned, ironing and dry cleaning are deal breakers when it comes to clothes. “Hang to dry” is really pushing the limits of my relationship with a garment. But my husband doesn’t have a job like mine that can be done while wearing pajamas or a favorite Eddie Bauer t-shirt. He wears “dress shirts” and thinks it’s probably more professional if they’re not a wrinkled, wadded up mess. So I decided to help him out and iron. I’m good like that.

So about half way through ironing the first shirt, I see the tag in the collar that says, “No Iron.” Really? Who are they kidding?! As if it wasn’t bad enough that I’m ironing, now I’m ironing a no iron shirt! The ultimate insult to injury! Somewhere there were factory workers in Bangladesh or Thailand or Irkgackistan cackling about how they’d gotten the last laugh on that one, don’t you know.

But it doesn’t even end there. Evil was surely woven into every fiber of this shirt, because no sooner had I ironed it than the wrinkles all jumped right back in. Not only do you have to iron the no iron shirt, but you have to steam it, too. I’m not saying you can just make the iron hiss in the direction of the shirt. No, it has to be taken to the rim of an active volcano, set next to Old Faithful in Yellowstone, or left on a street in Texas after an August rainstorm. Either that or a full on wrinkle exorcism was going to have to be performed to call out the demon wrinkles once and for all.